“Do you know no other reckoning?”
“The men of Lagur call it the Year of the Dolphin, I believe.”
“This is the year two hundred and ninety-nine of the Thirteenth Age, the age in which the goddess P’hul is ascendant over all the world.”
“I do not see the significance of this.”
“P’hul is the goddess of decay, the handmaiden of death, one of the greatest of the Lords of Dûs.”
“I still fail to see why this is of any concern to me.”
“This is the Age of Decay, Garth. There is nothing you nor anyone can do to prevent the continuance of universal decline, so long as P’hul remains dominant.”
“Such fatalism is irrelevant. I do not believe in your gods. And even if I cannot prevent death and decay, at the very least I can avoid contributing to it.”
“Perhaps. Yet perhaps not. How many deaths have you caused already upon this errand?”
“A dozen men died that I might bring you the monster.”
“One, undoubtedly, was Shang, the wizard responsible for the depopulation of Mormoreth. The rest, I take it, were bandits?”
“Yes.”
“You mourn the loss of these twelve?”
“Any death is unfortunate.”
“Yet you killed them.”
“I acted in self-defense.”
“Still, you killed them. Can you really avoid contributing to decay and death?”
Garth was silent for a moment, then answered, “I killed in self-defense. You are under no threat so dire that you need the basilisk to defend you.”
“So you will not deliver it?”
“Not unless you first satisfy me that you will not use it to slaughter.”
“But I can do that without revealing my purpose.”
There was another moment of silence, or rather, a moment in which the only sound was the steady patter of rain at the window. The glow of the single candle flickered. Finally, Garth said, “How?”
“I swear, by my heart and all the gods, that I have no intention of using the basilisk’s gaze or venom to slay others. That oath satisfied you once.”
Garth said nothing, considering.
“If that is not sufficient, then I will swear further by the God Whose Name Is Not Spoken.”
Garth hesitantly said, “I have been warned that you are an evil being.”
“Ah. Shang thus warned you?”
“Yes.”
“What is evil? Perhaps I merely opposed Shang, who destroyed an innocent city. In any case, even evil beings are not lightly foresworn, and you have heard my oath.”
Garth made no answer. He felt slightly ashamed, though he was unsure why.
“Will you fetch now the basilisk?”
Garth cleared his throat. “Yes.”
“Good. Deliver it to the stable here at the inn. I will have a place readied.”
“There are still things I wish to know,” Garth said hesitantly.
“Indeed?”
“I have heard that you have lived here for decades, yet no one knows your name.”
“This is true.”
“Why?”
“That is not your concern”
“Are you in truth evil, as Shang alleged?”
There was a pause before the old man replied, “I do not know what evil is.”
“What is your name, that you have told no one?”
“I was once called Yhtill, a name which surely means nothing to you.”
It was indeed meaningless to the overman.
“You have sworn not to misuse the basilisk.” Garth was still confused, seeking further reassurance. The Forgotten King’s answer was little comfort.
“I am certainly less likely to do harm with it than the Baron of Skelleth, to whom you gave it.”
Garth started, wondering how he had known that, then told himself angrily that the old man had undoubtedly heard about the mysterious tent in the market-square and put three and three together when Garth said that the basilisk was in Skelleth. In any case, the remark was undoubtedly true. The overman rose awkwardly from the too-low chair, wrapping his wet, tattered grey cloak about him, and announced, “I will bring it.”
The old man said nothing, but merely rose, with an ease and silence surprising in one so aged.
Garth turned to go, then paused. It had occurred to him that there might be soldiers in the tavern, and he did not care to venture boldly past them. Also, he had been away from Koros longer than he had planned, due to losing his way in the rain and winding streets, and, ever insecure, he wished to be sure the warbeast was fed and reasonably comfortable.
He stood, feeling awkward, a few feet from the door.
“You hesitate,” the Forgotten King said.
“Yes. I would know if there is a back way. I do not care to go through the tavern again. Your townspeople dislike me, and the guardsmen serve a Baron who has banned overmen from the village.”
“Ah.”
“Also, I would attend to my warbeast before undertaking the recapture of the basilisk.”
“As you wish. I have waited this long; such a delay can mean little. Unfortunately, there is no exit from this place save through the common room. Perhaps you would care to wait while I secure a goat to feed the beast and make sure your route is clear.”
“I would be most grateful.” Garth might have continued with a remark on how much he appreciated such consideration from one he had agreed to serve, but he no longer had an audience; the old man — whose unpronounceable name Garth could not bring himself to use — had already left. The overman called after him, hoping he would be heard only by the right ears, “Could you make it two goats?”
There was no answer; silence descended upon the dim room, save for the steady drumming of the rain.
Chapter Thirteen
Garth’s wait was not long; perhaps fifteen minutes had elapsed when the Forgotten King appeared in the doorway, motioning for the overman to follow. He obeyed promptly, springing up from the chair he had waited in. In truth, he was glad to leave the room, which in its dusty dimness had an atmosphere that unsettled him. During his wait he had studied the furnishings more closely, and noticed that they were stranger than he had at first thought. Beneath a universal layer of dust, the woods and upholsteries could be seen and felt not to be any common substance that the overman was familiar with, but rather unnaturally smooth and somehow alien. What he had at first taken for walnut and ebony had grains unlike any wood Garth knew. What he had taken for leather and velvet had a strange wrongness of texture, and he was certain that no ordinary animal had produced these substances. The whole room was somehow unnatural, as if it were a sorcerous illusion, and he was relieved to be out of it and in the bare but reassuringly normal corridor.
The Forgotten King led the way to the head of the stair, then turned and rasped, “The way is clear. The inn is closed, and the two goats are tied by the stable door.”
Garth nodded. “Thank you,” he said, as he groped at his belt for his purse. “How much did the goats cost?”
“They are paid for.”
Garth paused, and looked closely at the old man.
Almost immediately he regretted doing so, as the man’s mummylike hands and hidden face rather unsettled his nerves. He shrugged and left his money where it was. No doubt the King had more than enough gold to pay for such things, even if he hadn’t seen fit to use it when last Garth was in Skelleth.
“I thank you again,” he said.
“You pamper that animal,” the old man replied.
“Better to pamper it than risk letting it become uncontrollably hungry.”
“Perhaps.”
Without further ado Garth turned and strode down the stairs. As the Forgotten King had promised, the common room was empty and dark. The brass fittings
of the liquor casks gleamed dully in the dim light that trickled in through the spotless windows, a light that did little to alleviate the blackness. Carefully, Garth crossed the tavern, managing to reach the door with only a single bumped shin. As quietly as he could contrive he slipped the latch, opened the door, and slid through into the noisome damp of the alleyway. There was a narrow overhang above him, so that the rain, which had lightened to a steady drizzle, did not immediately reach him. With that momentary respite, he straightened his cloak, pushed his sword out of sight, and stooped, so that when he stepped from the threshold he seemed once more a bent old man, albeit an exceptionally tall one, with hood pulled well forward to keep the rain from his eyes.
A few paces to his left was the stable door. He headed that way, only to step ankle-deep in a foul-smelling puddle that he had not seen in the dark. The cold water thoroughly soaked the rags he had bound on in lieu of boots, and he wished again he knew some appropriate curse for such occasions. He started to step back out of the water, then changed his mind and strode on; what more could happen?
He promptly cut his newly healed left foot on some sharp object under the even black surface of the water. Growling angrily, he marched on, and emerged without further hurt on the stable threshold. Peering inside, he could see nothing at all, but his hand on the doorframe encountered a tether. He pulled at it, and was answered with the bleating of a goat.
Now it merely remained to get the goats to Koros, then to find and retrieve the basilisk. Dragging the reluctant goats, he marched off westward.
It was well after midnight, and the streets were, as far as the overman could see, utterly deserted. He maintained his stoop and the concealment of his hood, which in any case kept off some of the rain, but decided against struggling through the murky side streets, risking losing himself again. He had just concluded that even the high road west from the village square would be safe, and clearly the best and fastest route, as he passed the dark doorway of the King’s Inn, when someone stepped from the middle alley of the three that met the one he was in, scarcely a dozen yards away. The dim glow from the few remaining illuminated windows glinted yellowly from his shoulder, and Garth realized the man wore mail — it was one of the Baron’s men-at-arms.
It was only common sense, after all, for the Baron to post a guard on the inn. Garth silently reprimanded himself for not expecting it. It was too late to hide; the soldier had seen him. He kept on walking, dragging the goats, as if the man’s presence were of no importance to him.
“Ho, there!”
Garth stopped short. He paused a second before replying, glancing about as if to be certain he was the one addressed.
“Yes?” He pitched his voice an octave above its natural range.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m going home.”
“Where’s that?”
“West of town.”
“Where did you get those goats?”
“Bought them.”
“At midnight?”
“This afternoon. I stopped for a drink or two, that’s all.”
“Well, old man, I know they’re stolen as well as you do. But I have orders to stay here and guard this pesthole of an inn. Maybe I could forget I saw you.” As the conversation had proceeded both parties had kept moving, so that they were now only a few feet apart from one another, Garth keeping his head low so that all he could see of the soldier was his feet. He didn’t see the guard’s outstretched palm, but he caught the meaning of his remarks. The man wanted a bribe.
“I have no money, sir, else I’d pay you for your kindness.” He tried to make his voice shake as he said that, but the attempt sounded unnatural at best.
The soldier peered at the bent, cloaked figure that still stood as tall as himself, and decided that he wasn’t going to get any money without a fight. Annoyed, he ordered, “Well, be off with you, you and your damned goats. And take the rain with you.” He turned, disgruntled, and splashed off to his lurking-place in the middle alley.
Trying to sound like any fawning peasant, Garth said, “Yes, sir, and thank you, thank you very much, and bless you, and may the gods keep you safe.” He sloshed onward through the puddles, dragging his reluctant goats but being careful not to display too plainly his superhuman strength. It was only when he was well past the center alley, in fact at the corner of the westernmost alley near where he had waited before entering the tavern, that he dared to halt and abandon his role of an elderly human. Growling, he peered through the rain but could see nothing. He doubted that the small, pale eyes of humans were as good as his own blood red ones, and therefore concluded that if he could see no one, no one could see him. He stood straight long enough to ease a little of the ache in his mistreated back, gave a jerk that sent the goats tumbling and bleating, then resumed his crouch more to keep his face dry than to maintain his façade and marched off through the black and dripping streets.
He made the rest of his journey without incident, looping through the noisome side streets until at last he emerged onto the west road, then making excellent time on that relatively wide, straight and well-drained street. The goats gave up fighting his superior strength, and in fact hurried on willingly, apparently hoping that the overman would get them in out of the rain.
Even though there were no further delays other than the poor footing and visibility caused by the rain, Garth knew that only three hours remained before dawn when he finally found himself looking at the distinctive ruined wall that surrounded his chosen cellar. Since he hoped to slip into the baronial mansion before sunrise, he was hurried and impatient. He called out for Koros while still a dozen yards away.
There was no response.
Oh, well, Garth told himself, the beast must be asleep. He trudged on, leading the goats, which were beginning to show some signs of reluctance. Perhaps they had caught the scent of warbeast.
Splashing through a puddle, Garth rounded a broken wall and peered into the darkness of the basement where he had left Koros. He was unable to distinguish a thing. Here he had no scattered light from the village windows, and the moon and stars were hidden by the clouds. The only light was a dim luminescence that seemed to come from the clouds themselves.
It was hardly surprising that he could not see a black animal, no matter how large, in a pitch-dark hole. He wished he had some means of making a light, but there was nothing around not far too wet to catch a spark from his flint. He called again, to be answered only by the very faintest of echoes. As he continued to look downward, away from the pale glimmer of the sky, he had the impression that his eyes were adjusting to this more absolute darkness, yet the cellar continued to appear a smooth black. It seemed somehow unnatural; suddenly apprehensive, Garth groped for a chip of rubble and tossed it into the cellar, listening for the click of the pebble on the stone floor he had cleared that afternoon.
Instead, he heard a small “ploosh” as the shard struck smooth water, and he realized why he had been apprehensive. His senses, either sight or sound, had detected the fall of rain on water rather than pavement, though he had not immediately realized it. Though the storm had trailed off to little more than a drizzling mist, it was still there. However, Koros wasn’t.
The warbeast was more tolerant of water than its feline ancestors, and fully as obedient as one could reasonably expect, but it would scarcely stay in a hole flooded well over a foot deep. Garth crouched thoughtfully as he tried to guess where the creature would have gone upon deciding to abandon the place it had been ordered to stay.
It seemed to him that it would do one of four things: it would seek out its master for further instructions; it would go hunting, as it had not been fed for a day or two; it would go home, either to Ordunin or, if its memory was long enough, to Kirpa; or it would merely seek shelter, a dry place where it could wait out the storm. And in any of those four cases, it might eventually return to await Garth.
; If it had gone seeking Garth it might even now be lost in the village, wandering the empty streets in search of him. That could be very bad, but there was nothing Garth could do about it. If it had gone home, well, it was gone. Likewise, if it was hunting, it would come back in its own time and not before, and there was no way Garth could find it. He might search the area on the chance that it merely sought shelter and found some nearby, but the overman did not feel that it would be wise to waste the time. Instead he would leave the goats here, and hurry back to Skelleth after the basilisk. When he had delivered the monster to the Forgotten King there would be time enough to find Koros. The only thing he regretted was that he had left his supplies in the cellar, where they undoubtedly remained somewhere under the dark rainwater. He did not care to venture down there after them.
His decision reached, he looped the goats’ tether around a narrow stone that protruded from the ruin and hurried back toward the high road. Without the goats to impede him he made much better time. Though the rain continued, the thin trickle made little difference. He still had better than two hours until dawn when he reached the empty village square.
It bothered him somewhat that Koros had vanished, and also that he had no supplies except his sword and axe, both hidden under his grey patchwork cloak. His feet were both chilled through and thoroughly uncomfortable in their sopping rags, and the cut on his left sole, which had seemed insignificant at first, was becoming painful enough that he found himself limping. He wished that he had found himself a cobbler and gotten new boots before undertaking any further adventures. It was too late to turn back now; Koros might be found by the Baron’s men at any time, revealing its master’s continued presence in Skelleth. Also, the longer the Baron retained the basilisk the more likely harm would be done.
The square was deserted, but the Baron’s mansion plainly wasn’t. There were lights visible in several of its windows. Still, Garth doubted that there were many people within awake enough to oppose him; most likely the Baron and a few chosen men were doing something, perhaps studying the basilisk.
The Lure of the Basilisk Page 15
